The Thread (38 page)

‘We may as well mark the moment of our freedom,’ said Eugenia. ‘It’s a long time since we’ve been for a stroll.’

From Irini Street they walked down to the seafront. The prows of half-sunken ships stuck out of the water like shark fins. Many of them had been there for nearly two years now and were rapidly rusting, the sad corpses of a once-strong merchant navy. There was no activity at the port and the vast expanse of dockyard, once so alive with movement and noise, was eerily silent.

‘I don’t suppose you remember …’

They were standing in the open space next to the customs house and the building stirred a distant memory for Katerina. It had not been whitewashed in decades, and the same huge clock on the outside miraculously still told the time.

‘I think I do remember something. Were we standing for ages over by that building … and queuing for something?’

‘Yes, we were,’ Eugenia smiled.

‘And there were lots and lots of people. That’s what really sticks in my mind. And a woman wearing white.’

The emptiness of the space now contrasted so completely with that first memory that they both turned away. Eugenia shuddered. A breeze was blowing in across the sea and over the empty cobbled space. A few pieces of litter danced.

‘You’re thinking of the woman from the Refugee Commission,’ said Eugenia. ‘She found us our home.’

‘We were all so dirty, and she was so clean! I remember that so clearly. I thought she must be a fairy.’

They continued walking, unrelaxed, finding it hard to forget the constant fear of a sudden tap on the shoulder and the demand for identity papers. Even though the Germans were no longer there, nervousness and a sense of ill ease remained.

They took a circuitous route around the town, walking eastwards towards the White Tower. A glimpse of the Arch of Galerius and the ancient Rotunda reminded them that the historic monuments of the city were intact, as though they had enjoyed the Germans’ special respect. The more workaday places, on the other hand, had been badly bruised by the occupation. The little streets of boarded-up shops, gutted buildings and vandalised synagogues were all its victims. Although some areas still bore the scars of the 1917 fire, more of the city than ever was in a state of dereliction. In some neighbourhoods, there was a sense of ghostly vacancy and their footsteps echoed eerily back at them.

Even in the still inhabited areas, people had got into the habit of staying inside their homes, and the coolness of autumn did not encourage the old habit of bringing a chair onto the doorstep.

They kept walking and talking, occasionally seeing a kafenion where men sat drinking and playing
tavli
, just as they had done in the days before the war, and such glimpses of normality reassured them.

Eventually, they reached a street that was as familiar to Katerina as Irini Street: Filipou Street, where Moreno & Sons was situated.

Eugenia felt Katerina’s grip on her arm tighten. The hoarding that had been placed over the doors and windows had been taken down and all the graffiti and crudely scrawled Stars of David that had been daubed over the walls had been scrubbed off. There were men walking in and out carrying boxes, and sounds of activity came from inside.

Katerina had noticed something else as well. There was no longer a sign over the premises and the door had been repainted. The emerald green that Kyrios Moreno had always favoured (to match the delivery van of which he had been so proud) had been replaced by a deep ox-blood red.

They stood and watched for a few minutes.

‘It’s going to be reopened,’ said Katerina with a note of dismay.

It was unbearable to see it and they hastened back to Irini Street in silence.

The following day, the entire population of the city descended on Aristotelous Square for the official celebration of the liberation from the Germans. The cafés where enemy soldiers had lounged in the sun for four whole summers were once again full of Greeks.

There was one thing the city’s residents had not lost during the occupation and that was their resilience. Their magnificent city, so multilayered and rich in history, had suffered a multitude of tribulations in the past decades but once again, they were faced with the challenge of making it better than before.

A month before the Germans departed, an agreement had been signed between the various factions and opposing interests on both right and left. In the Caserta Agreement, as it was known, the resistance leaders pledged to forbid any of their units to take the law into their own hands once the Germans had gone. The Government of National Unity was installed and, just as the agreement had specified, there was no attempt by the Communists to seize power.

The head of the right-wing army, EDES, even went to London to assure the British that he would work together with the Communists and with the new government to ensure the country’s democratic development. Peaceful transition was looking hopeful.

Late one afternoon, Katerina called in to the Komninos house to deliver a coat she had repaired for Pavlina. In the hallway, she saw Kyria Komninos.

‘I haven’t heard from him, I’m afraid,’ Olga said without prompting. ‘It’s hard for him to get in touch.’

Only a few weeks had passed since they had all been sitting around him in the kitchen, but Katerina had found Dimitri constantly occupying her thoughts.

‘I’m sure he’ll be back soon,’ she said, trying to conceal her own concern.

‘I think there might have been some kind of truce between him and his father if he had returned when the Germans left,’ she said regretfully, ‘but I think his father realises now how committed he is.’

‘Well, he is, isn’t he?’ Katerina responded.

‘Yes, Katerina. But I’m so afraid,’ Olga admitted. ‘We thought the war was over but some people are saying that there might be more fighting. Kyrios Komninos is saying that the Left are making demands and the government shouldn’t give in to them.’

Olga’s voice betrayed the disappointment that many people were sharing. Winter was rapidly approaching and, with the lengthening nights, a pall of pessimism was descending.

Olga disappeared upstairs and Katerina went into the kitchen.

‘Here you are, Pavlina,’ she said. ‘I hope you like it.’

She held out a green coat. It looked almost new. Using scraps of fabric from a box that still sat in the Morenos’ house, she had covered the old buttons with deep red velvet and given the collar and cuffs a fine edging with a piece of the same material. Additionally, she had relined the coat with the fabric from an old floral dress.

Pavlina, who had been washing dishes, immediately dried her hands and took the garment from Katerina. She put the coat on and did a slow twirl to show it off. Pavlina’s access to good food meant that she had remained quite plump even during the years of hardship.

‘It’s just like new,’ she cried. ‘But better! You’re such a clever girl! Thank you so much. I can look forward to the winter now!’

Katerina then remembered something. She needed Pavlina’s advice.

‘I had a letter today. Will you tell me what you think?’

Producing an envelope from her pocket, she handed it to Pavlina.

Pavlina read it aloud. ‘“Dear Kyria Sarafoglou, I hear on good authority that you are an excellent
modistra
. I have several vacancies in my new business in Thessaloniki and would like you to come for interview on Friday morning at ten o’clock.”’

‘That sounds good. You need to be back in a workshop now.’ She handed the letter back and teasingly added: ‘You’ll never meet anyone working on your own at home …’

With so many young men away fighting, there were thousands of girls who, under normal circumstances, should have been married. Now that many men were coming back, she felt it was high time that Katerina had what she called ‘a nice young man’.

‘But don’t you recognise the address?’ Katerina said with a note of exasperation. ‘It’s the Morenos’ workshop!’

She handed the letter back to Pavlina, who scrutinised it.

‘I went past with Eugenia and there were lots of people there, repainting it and getting it ready.’

‘And that name … I recognise that too. Grigoris Gourgouris has been here lots of times in the past few years. He and Kyrios Komninos obviously do lots of business together.’

‘But when the Morenos come back …?’

‘They’ll be given some compensation, Katerina,’ said Pavlina. ‘Don’t worry. The authorities can’t just leave all those businesses empty! We’ve got to get this city going again!’

Katerina looked thoughtfully at the letter.

‘And if they return and get the workshop back, then they’ll be pleased to see that you are already working there!’ Pavlina added.

Katerina could appreciate Pavlina’s neat and tidy logic.

‘I suppose I have to earn a living,’ she said. ‘Kyrios Moreno would definitely understand that.’

Later that week, Katerina attended her interview. There was a room with fifty other women waiting to be seen, and while they were waiting they were each given a piece of linen on which they had to demonstrate five embroidery stitches, five edging techniques and a rouleau buttonhole.

One by one, they were summoned to the interview room. By the time she was called, Katerina had been kept waiting for two hours.

The man at the desk was three times the size of the diminutive previous owner. Katerina handed over her sampler and noticed big hands with soft pudgy fingers.

‘Mmm, good, good,’ he said, inspecting it closely. ‘I see your reputation is justified, Miss Sarafoglou.’

She stayed silent.

‘I have seen your work,’ he said, looking up for the first time. ‘You make gowns for Konstantinos Komninos’ wife, don’t you? She is an excellent mannequin!’

As he spoke, she noticed yellowing teeth beneath a silvery moustache and eyes in a full-moon face that almost disappeared when he grinned, just as he did at this moment.

‘I know children who can sew better than some of those women out there,’ he said wearily. ‘But this is good. This is what I was hoping to see.’

Katerina attempted a smile. She thought it was the expected response to what was supposed to be a compliment.

‘I expect a lot of my
modistras
, so don’t expect to be sitting about chatting all day. In my workshops, it’s a twelve-hour day, half an hour for lunch. Half-day on Saturday. Sundays off. And if there is something that needs finishing for a customer, then it has to be finished. This is how I have made my reputation in Veria and Larissa, and soon it will be the same here. It’s why I am known as the “Top Tailor in Town”. You’ll see it on the side of my vans: “We make the date! We’re never late!”’

He coughed once, as if giving his speech a full stop. He had made it a thousand times and his flowing truisms and mottoes tripped fluently off his tongue, inviting no response. Katerina knew she had got a job.

‘Monday next. Eight o’clock. Good morning, Miss Sarafoglou.’ He smiled at her and she knew this was the sign for her to go.

As she left, she saw a queue of applicants that tailed down to the end of the street. There must have been two hundred women still waiting to be seen and she realised she was one of the lucky ones.

The gleaming sign above the door, ‘G
RIGORIS
G
OURGOURIS
’, made her feel uneasy but at this moment, with hunger nagging at her insides, there seemed no choice.

The company officially opened for business the following week. The
modistras
had been locally recruited, except for one, who had been brought by Grigoris Gourgouris from Athens. She was put in charge of the finishing room and oversaw the younger women with distinctly undermining condescension.

Gourgouris had brought a handful of his tailors from Veria and Larissa but most of the new recruits lacked the experience that he would have liked. Many of the best tailors in the city had been Jewish, and their absence had left a huge gap of skilled labour. It would be a long while before the Gourgouris label carried the same cachet as the Moreno name.

Grigoris Gourgouris came himself to inspect the women’s work several times a day, even though they felt his interest was over-zealous. As far as they could tell, their boss did not even know how to run a straight line of stitches to join two pieces of fabric. As soon as he left the room, the girls gossiped about him, speculating on why he spent so long leaning over particular members of his staff. After several weeks, Katerina became the object of much teasing.

‘It’s Katerina this and Katerina that,’ they chanted. ‘Look at her satin stitch! Look at her ruching! Look at her edging!’

They were right. It had become obvious that the person in whom Gourgouris took the greatest interest was herself. She became familiar with the strong waft of garlic that usually forewarned her that the boss was on his way, ambling slowly down the row of workers to see what they were doing, before stopping and leaning slightly too close to hear about the assignment she was working on.

Katerina always answered his questions precisely and politely, holding her breath in between answers to reduce the effect of his vaporous breath. He was sincerely lavish in his praise of her work and when she was sent round to see Olga Komninos for a fitting, she discovered that he had broadcast his high opinion of her at the Komninos dinner table too.

‘He is very impressed by you,’ said Olga to Katerina’s reflection, as the latter fastened a dress for her in front of a large mirror. ‘He was here on Saturday and he kept saying how thrilled he was with your work. Apparently you are in a different class from anyone else.’

Katerina said nothing. She found it awkward that he paid her so much attention. It was uncomfortable to be singled out and she often found herself touching the
mati
that she had on a chain around her neck, the ‘evil eye’ that was meant to protect the wearer from jealousy.

While Thessaloniki was beginning to regain some kind of normality, events were moving on apace in Athens. As the citizens of Thessaloniki read their newspapers, they knew that whatever happened in their capital, the consequences would have a profound effect on them.